


No Man's Land

by afterism



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Gen, Gore, Horror, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Zombies, this isn't going to end well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/pseuds/afterism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the only thing that could stop the Civil War was a full on zombie apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man's Land

**Author's Note:**

> de-anon from the anon meme! from the prompt: _Because the only thing that could stop the civil war was a full on zombie apocalypse, and even these two aren't stubborn enough to refuse help with their brains on the line._

"This is all your fault," Cromwell hissed, keeping his voice low and quiet as they crouched under the window.

"How did you work that out?" Charles whispered back, not really listening as he tried to very, very slowly peek over the windowsill. Something moved in the shadows outside. He ducked back down and breathed, his hand white-knuckled but steady on his sword.

"You knew you were losing so you had your witches summon the dead from their graves. Which is _sinful_ ," Cromwell sneered, flicking his eyes briefly to Charles's face and shifting onto the balls of his feet, ready to run.

"My-- I don't have _witches_ on my side, Cromwell!" Charles burst out, too much sudden noise and they looked at each other with wide eyes as something outside groaned in answer.

"Idiot," Cromwell hissed, drawing out his dagger and holding tight.

"That was your fault," Charles whispered back, glaring at him in the darkness, and crawled a few paces away so he could stand up and flatten himself against the wall. A beat, then he leaned over with aching slowness to peer out of the window into the gloom - nothing stirred, the shadows still and silent.

"Typical, selfish royal, " Cromwell muttered, and scrambled to his feet as Charles motioned for him to stand up and get behind him.

"We should move," Charles said, eyes scanning the darkness. It was just a townhouse in a narrow, twisting street, all sharp angles in the cloudy moonlight and too many places for things to lurk, waiting.

"Do you suppose they're positioning themselves in the alleyways? It'd make them better tacticians than you," Cromwell said, leaning close over his shoulder to watch the empty street, dipping into almost complete darkness as a thick cloud hung over the moon. 

"I don't suppose to underestimate them," Charles bit back, turning his head to say it as quietly vicious as possible, and Cromwell lurched back as he felt Charles's breath brush warm over his cheek. He stumbled, smacking his shoulder against the wall as Charles watched him in puzzlement, then froze as the sound seemed to echo.

Something thumped against the other side of the wall. A silent pause, then it smacked the wall again and something moaned, low and sick and wrong in a way that made them both tighten their grip on their blades, squaring their shoulders against the shiver that lurked, threatening, in their spines.

"Out the back door?" Charles murmured, barely a breath above silence.

"Out the front and attack it head-on," Cromwell countered. "In the open we'll have a better shot at seeing them coming."

"In the alleyway they won't be able to sneak up on us," Charles whispered, rushed. "We can cut them down in single file."

"And trap ourselves in a blockade of bodies," Cromwell snarled. "We go out the front and defend ourselves until we find better shelter."

"We could stay here," Charles said, after a pause of just breathing, crowding close in the darkness as they argued as soundlessly as possibly.

"Coward," Cromwell grimaced, and Charles drew breath to reply and something slapped against the window - something rotten and bloody and with hands that broke the glass without hesitation.

"Run," Charles gasped, and they tore out of the front door, spilling out into the moonlit street so tangled that Charles only saved himself from tripping by grabbing onto Cromwell's shoulder with one hand, his other tight around the hilt of his sword - and then he looked up, and realised why Cromwell had stopped so suddenly.

There were at least half a dozen of the things, drawn by the noise of the breaking glass and their own panicked footfalls, shambling towards them from both ends of the street and one emerging, groaning, from a narrow side street. Charles tried to take a breath through his mouth and the tang of decay hit the back of his throat, cloying and heavy and there was a corpse wearing the uniform of a cavalier, almost unrecognisable under all that dried blood. Charles fought down the surge of nausea.

He pressed his back against Cromwell's, eyes constantly flicking between the relentlessly advancing things, slow and shuffling but he'd _seen_ what happened when they got close enough to someone without steel in their hands. "We fight?" he murmured over his shoulder, barely turning his head.

"We fight," Cromwell agreed, and lurched away as the first came within striking distance. Charles took a breath, sizing up the... the _corpse_ that was advancing towards him, limbs intact but his neck a shredded mess of blood and flesh and bone, and Charles decapitated it with a single blow, his sword slicing through the remains of its spine with sickening ease.

Another was suddenly close by his elbow, glass embedded in its hands and decaying fingers clawing wetly as his sleeve and he spun, driving the pommel into the side of its head, the skull cracking and bursting foul, dark blood over his hand as it stumbled back, giving him the space to drive his sword through its neck. A third was still coming towards him, groaning dully as it reached out with one gnarled hand and he side-stepped it neatly, thrusting the tip of sword through its skull and withdrawing in one quick movement: the body crumpled to the ground, and he allowed himself one deep breath as his lungs burned.

And then there was something close against his back, something fetid and _wrong_ and it was too late, surely, even as he turned and could only strike the edge of his sword against the creature's torso as impossibly strong hands sank into his shoulder - then there was the slick sound of steel through loose flesh, the corpse falling into three separate pieces as Cromwell finished his swipe through its neck and Charles's blade severed its trunk, and they were left staring at each other in the echoing silence.

Charles looked at him in something like admiration. Cromwell avoided his gaze and dropped to a crouch, cleaning his blade as best he could on the tattered remains of the thing's coat.

"I could have handled that," Charles said, his tone falling flat.

Cromwell sneered, and then his eyes flicked up to the blood splattered thickly over his hand. "You're injured," he said, bluntly, and sheathed his blade as he stepped over the corpse to grab his hand, so quickly that Charles barely had time to react.

"It's not mine," he managed, as Cromwell plucked his sword away and pressed it into his other hand, swiping away the rank blood with his thumb as he searched for an injury that wasn't there.

"I would have to kill you, if you became like them," Cromwell said, staring down at Charles's palm, his fingers still curled around it.

"And I you," Charles said, quiet in the empty street. "We should find shelter," he said, and Cromwell dropped his hand like it burnt and stepped away.

"You expect me to follow _you_?" Cromwell sneered, keeping his voice low.

"I expect you want to survive," Charles sighed, switching his sword back into his right hand and flexing his fingers around the hilt, testing his grip. "I only suppose it's safer to not be alone."

"Yes. But _you_?" Cromwell looked ill with the thought, wiping his bloody hand off on his coat, the stains almost invisible against the black.

Charles laughed, humourless. "It seems the forces of Hell are invading my country. Can our war wait?"

Something moaned in answer, gargling and sick and out of sight but still too close, a relentless call to death. "Until the morning, perhaps," Cromwell muttered, barely audible in the ringing silence of a deserted city, and pulled out his blade again. "Follow me," he hissed, and started off down the centre of the street, staying away from the shadowed doorways and twisted side streets as he drew them away from the sound.


End file.
